


We Are The Dead [on hiatus]

by raelouise



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 80s AU, Angst, Blitz Club AU, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:04:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raelouise/pseuds/raelouise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had <i>both</i> been golden, Louis knows. They’d been stalked in awe; the prettiest post-punks London had to offer. Coils of smoke that nobody could catch. Nobody’s property to cage and label. Whenever Louis spirals down, he wonders what Bowie had desired from Zayn that he couldn’t give, too; he would of given <i>anything</i>. His signature for his soul and fifteen minutes of fame. His signature for his soul and his rightful place tucked close to Zayn’s side. He feels like half a boy without him and no matter what makeup has framed them, his blue eyes have been dulled since they didn't kiss good bye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Gender non-conformity/being gender queer, references to drug use [both illegal & prescription], a necrophilia-related metaphor.
> 
> This piece is inspired by the [Blitz Club kids](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blitz_Kids)/Boy George's teenage years & early career/the film _Worried About The Boy_. I um, started this pre-Liam's unimpressive spat with Boy George, and gosh didn't that feel awkward... Anyway. The next four chapters will flick back and forth between flashbacks and present time [presents for the eighties, anyway].
> 
> The title is taken from the Bowie song.

_I couldn’t give a fuck you know, couldn’t give a shit about him_ Louis insists vehemently; spits it from his sneer though there’s nobody in the Blitz Club bathroom to hear him but his own reflection.  

Louis. A venetian mask of _oh darling, you’re not fooling anybody_ : white as a mime, kohl tracks through the violent pink sliced beneath his cheekbones, lips a cupids bow of dried blood and eyebrows inked into doubting arches; drawn by his own hand and yet siding with someone else. Regardless, Louis puffs the bird bones of his chest and he smiles. It’s a cruel thing, taunting, but it’s beautiful too. As quick as a butcher’s knife. Fangs bright even under the shitty light of the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling.  

He is pretty. If Louis is nothing else, he has that in spades. Wickedly _pretty_. Androgynous and fabulous, dripping in jewelry like fucking Marie Antoinette- had the queen dared to swathe herself in yards of black lace and buckled bondage. Leather cutting into his hips, lace frothing out from his sternum and great jewels gleaming at his earlobes, his throat, each of his dainty fingers. Cheap from the high street, stolen from charity shops, and cultivated into a whole movement. Into a glorious gender fucking celebration of being barely twenty one and unemployed.

He says it again, says _fuck him and his fucking luck_ and he has himself convinced- until Nick Grim comes sashaying in, Louis hearing his heels click before he sees him. Nick likes to make an entrance and follow through and tonight, true to form, he’s wrapped in a dramatic cloak with a feathered hat set back behind his curly quiff. Beneath the grey of the bathroom walls and sparse light, he’s tinged green. He’s serpentine and he sends a snake up Louis’ spine when he speaks- 

“Is that _Zayn’s_ luck, love? You wont cope with him being back tonight and everybody knows it. You’ve never been the same since he was whisked away.”  

Right behind Nick is Harry, because Harry is Nick’s lap dog, but he is far softer than the older man. Dressed in a cloud of billowing cheese cloth ruffles and brocade, Louis thinks of him as a mop headed pirate. Liberal with his rouge and with his heart in the right place- often pinned to a gathered sleeve. 

“You need a hug?” He asks, up behind Louis, smelling of perfume tainted with weed, “Don’t worry, you know. The club’s going to be packed, you’ll be able to avoid him, I’m sure.”  

With Harry’s head bowed to Louis’ shoulder, the pair of them in the mirror, cheek to cheek, look like a drug induced dream. Nick leers at them and Louis despises himself for knowing that he would- probably not in the bathroom, but the three of them on some bedroom floor. He calls it an option, dependent on how many Screwdrivers he gets through and how many pieces his heart cracks in to.  

“I need a drink, baby,” He sighs, but he lets Harry throw his arms around him and they squeeze like children.  

At the bar, Louis can’t escape the whispers. Zayn’s name is alive on absolutely everybody’s lips. Little murmurs of wonder- _will he be a stranger? Will he have Bowie’s telephone number? Will they have fucked?_ Louis broods into his vodka orange and scowls at anyone who hopes to drag him into the conversation or worse, taunt him with sly comments- _funny really, we all thought you were the golden boy_ \- that get his heckles up.  

They had _both_ been golden, Louis knows. They’d been stalked in awe; the prettiest post-punks London had to offer. Coils of smoke that nobody could catch. Nobody’s property to cage and label. Whenever Louis spirals down, he wonders what Bowie had desired from Zayn that he couldn’t give, too; he would of given _anything_. His signature for his soul and fifteen minutes of fame. His signature for his soul and his rightful place tucked close to Zayn’s side. He feels like half a boy without him and no matter what makeup has framed them, his blue eyes have been dulled since they didn't kiss good bye.  

He can barely dance without Zayn’s rock steady rhythm, his hands and their intimate knowledge of his sloping hips. He tries, though- musters up all the effort that he can for a girl with spiraling curls who near sets him alight with her beauty, her bold lips prying at his; for Harry when he comes swooping by- eager to be twirled and preened over. Louis is ever so fond, but ever so tired, too. It shows in the weight of his painted eyelids, his lackluster cupping of Harry’s jawline and cheeks before he guides Harry into Nick’s claws and quietly excuses himself.   

Louis pushes blindly through the crowd until he finds his favourite booth. He sinks into it’s deepest corner and folds in to rest his forehead on the table’s edge. He lets himself be swallowed by the shadows there and they lay themselves over the bend of his back. As heavy as a corpse, it takes his breath away but he thinks that he doesn’t notice it really, he’s so used to being numb recently. And _oh_ \- he’d always looked dead, like a necrophiliac’s wet dream- but there had been constellations of life sparkling beneath the pallor of his skin. They’d left with Zayn. He’d walked out with stars stuck to the soles of his boots, lingering like grime beneath his fingernails.   

Far too often now, Louis imagines flaking to dust and disappearing. Swirling down the plughole, or simply scattering across the pavement and being kicked up and away by mindless London pedestrians. He thinks about it when he’s sucking cock that isn’t Zayn’s, or bolstering his cheery tone up ten notches whenever his lovely Mum telephones; he thinks about it when his reflection in their big Georgian mirror is devastatingly handsome and Zayn’s not there to see; he thinks about it when he’s nothing but tear stains and coke residue. He thinks about it when Nick rests an unexpectedly gentle hand against the back of his neck and ducks in to whisper-  

“Darling boy, Zayn’s car has just pulled up.”  

A great gust of wind goes sweeping passed Louis as the inhabitants of the Blitz Club surge towards the stairwell, shoving and pushing up onto their tip toes to get a good view. The nighttime children- with their strangely decorated faces and dramatic hair- all awfully eager; their stilettos clattering and their chatter bouncing back from the low basement ceiling. Louis slips lower in his seat, sucking his lip back behind his bottom teeth and scraping his nails against his palms. Small, useless distractions. Above him, Nick effects a look of genuine sympathy that’s foreign on his features.   

“He probably missed you too, you know. He’ll have been busy as fuck, probably didn’t even have time for fag breaks never mind calls to the wife.”  

“Doubtful.” Louis scowls and kicks out like a mule against the table leg, the pointed toe of his shoe giving him as sharp pinch, “Probably doesn’t even remember he had a boyfriend.”  

“Damnit Louis,” Nick sighs, exasperated, “We all miss you! Where have you gone? You haven’t been Louis Tomlinson for too long. Hell, if it’s gonna make you feel better- push through that bloody crowd of wannabes and demand some sort of apology from him right now.”  

“Not worth it,” Louis lies, same tone, and strolls across to the bar instead. There, he demands four people’s worth of drinks and slams them back like shots so that rivulets of orange juice smear the burgundy of his lips. Those down, he orders a fifth to wallow in. 

Niall, the head bartender and a good friend, thumbs anxiously against the knob of Louis’ wrist after he takes his money. He fixes him with an affectionate gaze and then lifts up across the bar to give his cheek a dry kiss-  

“Slow down, Louis. And don’t look behind ya, alright?” 

With Niall’s words, Louis senses his ex’s presence as a hot prickling at the nape of his neck. He sees Zayn’s silhouette on the steps, and the crowd ascending on him to worship, without having to glance backwards. His cheeks burn beneath their film of makeup, tears threatening to spill and ruin the canvas of it, like a crack spidering through porcelain. Crying is never really beautiful, though. Never the watercolour portrait one might imagine, with it’s rubbed raw skin and bubbling snot. Louis lifts careful lies when he sobs, so he swallows the possibility with a long swig of vodka and juice.  

“Ya look bewtichin’ tonight, Lou,” Niall continues, toweling off a tumbler as he does, “Real good, always do. Be brave, eh? All the lads are lookin’ out for ya.” 

Louis tries not to smile into his drink, shaking his head, “All the lads are lookin’ like ladies, ya mean?” He asks. 

Niall grins wide and shrugs, “Nah. The ladies are all trying to look like yous, I reckon.”  

Louis quietens and looks back to his glass- to his fingers wrapped around it, each of them studded with a ring. To the flawless silk of his skin and the ebony lace over it, the gathers of it just tugged above his little pink nipples. He gives himself a moment to admire the way the lace looks with the leather of his pants- the leather hugging at his thighs, the lace just floating against his bones- and then he turns on the spot. For a second, his eyes swim with tears and the lights of the room spin with it, but he sniffs hard and the tears slide to rest obediently beneath his kohl brushed lash lines. So that he can get a steady look at Zayn. 

Zayn, who is not a stranger. He is an all too familiar skinny boy in a sharp black suit; velvet lapels and a dainty ribbon knotted into a bow beneath his shirt collar. His hair is taller, all of him is taller, more narrow with it, but not by too much. His face... his face is just as Louis had remembered- which is a small burst of surprise in Louis’ chest, since he’d convinced himself that his dreams were exaggerating the finer angles of it. The way the entirety of him practically hung off of his cheekbones. The way he’d only ever needed mascara to become a piece of art [and Louis has his tube of it still, stashed beside his on the shelf above the bathroom sink]. 

Before Zayn can catch him staring, sentimentally damp-eyed, Louis slips back to his booth. Determined to ignore the quake in his hand, he carefully places his glass onto the table and lays himself down over the bench seat, so that he is completely hidden. Not quite dust down a plughole, but invisible for a while. His eyes close and his right hand drifts upwards to rub circles over their lids. It’s soothing enough for Louis to not care that his makeup will smear. He feels  heavier than he has in a long time, a sharp contrast to the lightness of being absolutely nothing at all. It makes him drowsy.  

He doesn’t sleep for long- maybe ten minutes at most, with the bass line of the music thudding up through him, the whirring of electronica like strobe lights behind his eyes- but he wakes to someone who hadn’t been there before. A slim figure sat opposite him, cradling a drink and staying statically still. Zayn, he knows, before his vision has even straightened out. How would he not know someone who had spooned up behind him every night? Someone had had loved. Still loved.  

“Alright Lou,” Zayn says, tender.  

Whenever Louis had imagined he and Zayn meeting again, it had always been about revenge. Spit and fists. Screaming himself raw and setting something free- all of those angry retorts that he’d thought about ten minutes after the door had slammed shut behind Zayn on _that_ morning. Louis would crash through glass, shake the shards loose from his hair and stalk off. Instead, his throat goes dry and all he can manage it sitting himself up right and reaching for his Screwdriver.  

Fight, flight or drained indifference.  

“Harry said you’d be here- you were so asleep so,” Zayn looks and sounds uncomfortable, blinking as though he’s in harsh sunlight and swallowing half-way between words, “Didn’t wanna wake you. You alright? I mean like, you gettin’ sick or somethin’?” 

Louis shrugs and thinks of the course of SSRIs he’d been prescribed by his doctor, the tub of tablets beside Zayn’s mascara in the bathroom. He doesn’t bother to reply.  

Zayn continues, kneading at his glass and shifting an inch, “I missed you, Louis. You look... just like you. When you were sleeping, I...” 

“My makeup’s smudged, isn’t it?” Louis whispers. 

Zayn’s eyes, more black than brown, search over Louis’ face; finding the bruise like smears beneath his lips and the imperfect strokes of his eyeliner- 

“Hadn’t noticed, love,” He murmurs honestly, “I like the lace, by the way. You’re still ahead of everyone else, aren’t you? Trend Setter Tomlinson.” 

Louis can’t keep himself from smiling at the compliment, lips tugging up before he’s told them that they can, but his head’s heavier again with- _no, no, Zayn, that’s not right_. _That’s you and this is a costume now, I’m not this person anymore, now that you’ve left me behind._  

_I can’t do this, don’t make me do this. Go away._


	2. Chapter 2

The morning that Zayn leaves begins wonderfully with a hand job at the bathroom sink.  

Louis’ there first- dressed for the night before, still and pawing at the remnants of his gothic makeup. Pulling at the bags beneath his eyes to see the brilliant whites and veiny smears of his eyeballs; tugging out his purple lips to reveal his gums. Hilariously grotesque faces in the mirror; silly smiles. He’s grey like an ink wash picture, but he’s sparkling, anyway. He thinks they might have gotten their hands on a bottle of champagne at some point, if the bubbling beneath his hangover is anything to go by. Pills maybe, pressed to cheeky tongues and trapped inside of kisses.  

When Zayn pads his way into the bathroom to find Louis, the sway to his gate is near pornographic. Lazily cocky in a way that Zayn can manage when only Louis’ eyes are on him. He scratches his belly- last night’s shirt gaping, and making sure to catch Louis’ gaze in the mirror, he arches his eyebrows- 

“What you up to, love?” 

“Um, teeth?” Louis suggests- rooting for the toothpaste amongst the other tubes piled up on the shelf above the sink, scattering lipsticks and kohl pencils.  

“Oh. Interestin’ that,” Zayn shrugs- taking longer strides in order to reach Louis; to blow a warm breath against the tops of his tan shoulders [he’s all honey coloured, down from where his white powder fades past his chin]. “Because you’re still in last night’s dress, and your face could do with a swill- but yeah, you brush your teeth first, why not?”  

“Why not?” Louis echoes- and flicks at the toothpaste’s cap idly, “My mouth tastes like gin and bile. Still, do you have any better ideas?” 

Louis’ dress is short and shiny. Some sort of elasticated fabric, in black, that _clings_ between his chest and thighs. There’s nothing much to it, but it does rather a lot for Zayn, whose palms had become quite familiar with the texture of it the night before- from mapping out the shape of Louis beneath it: the flesh of him- strong and soft and pliant. It hugs his boy’s curves- a cliche, but an honest one. The handfuls of his arse and the sweet swell of his belly cradled by the dress and then by his own hands.  

As Louis squeezes paste over the bristles of his brush, Zayn slips up beneath the dress. His blunt fingernails skate against the silky innards of Louis’ thick thighs, the meat of his arse, and then- just as Louis whines- Zayn rucks up the dress over the crease where his thighs and arse meet. There had been boxer briefs there when they’d left for the club, and fishnets, but Zayn’s not so surprised that they’ve been lost. Now there is just bare flesh that is gilded by the shafts of sunlight blazing in through the blinds. Zayn smirks and finds his favourite of Louis’ back dimples with ease, the size of them perfectly matched to the pad of each of his his thumbs. Louis shudders- 

“We can’t kiss. My breath, like.”  

“Wasn’t much thinking about kissing,” Zayn exhales, a guilty confession, “But if you want to continue, so afterwards, you know....” He tips his head towards Louis’ hovering toothbrush and skids his hands around from the other boy’s back to his stomach- to his cock.  

“Ohh I see- sleazy morning wank is it?” Louis asks, trying and failing to sound as though the mere idea of it is repugnant. In a weak attempt at disinterest, he carefully switches on the tap and watches the water over his brush, rather than his boyfriend’s eyes. 

“ _Sleazy_?” Zayn gasps, fitting his chin into the juncture between shoulder and neck, “Well _I_ wasn’t thinking sleazy, but if you’re feeling dirty today, Tomlinson...”  

He lifts his hand and Louis knows to spit into his palm [knows from the Blitz Club bathroom and the phone box in the alley way ten minutes from their flat; from other people’s bedroom floors when Zayn has to use the same palm to gag his moaning, too]. When it comes toappreciating and exploring and biting art into the backs of knee caps, the two of them are rough until it’s raw. Spit-slick and beastly, they demand volume from one another. They crave the sort of sex that’s difficult to recall with any clarity but easy to _feel_ afterwards, when lungs burn, wrist tendons, calf muscles.  

Wanting, Louis steadies himself by splaying his feet apart over the grubby floor tiles and hooking his free hand around the rim of the sink. It’s chipped where his palm settles and the jagged porcelain cuts into his skin, but he doesn’t think to move it. Not once Zayn’s fist is at his shaft, coaxing him to fuck into the gripping curl of his fingers. He has long artistic fingers that dwarf Louis’ when they push palm-to-palm, that so easily encircle his wrists or his throat. Louis sort of fell in love with those before he let himself fall for Zayn’s heart. 

Afterwards, over breakfast, Louis feels full enough to ignore that they’re almost always left hungry. Instead of the pain that comes with being too poor to eat enough, there’s a satisfying warmth that weighs him down as he tears chunks from his stale toast [mould scraped into the bin]. The memory of the kisses and the touches brushed over his skin, his lips. Across the wonky melamine table, Zayn seems caught up in much the same way. Quiet and contemplative, he leaves his toast ignored but has his favourite mug cupped in both hands. Black tea for them both today, because of the soured lumps floating in the milk and the lack of spare change in their wallets.  

Louis’ favourite Zayn is this Zayn, the boy that rolls from their unmade bed with his hair rumpled and his edges softly glowing. Sometimes with a cigarette tucked behind his ear and his eyes gummed with sleep, still. He is privileged, because Zayn is never undone like this around anybody else. Neither of them dare to brave the world beyond their front doors without their faces powdered, as though they don’t want anyone to see the truth: that as pretty as they are, they are fraught with flaws.  

Begrudgingly human, going through the motions of lazy morning wanks and shitty breakfasts and having to drag themselves to the job centre to queue with the other unemployed dregs of London town. The kids fresh out of school, scowling second wave skinheads, the young girls with their prams and greasy ponytails and the sad-seeming middle aged people Louis always wants to hug.  

“You mean the world to me,” Louis whispers, “Or you _are_ my world-” 

“Don’t,” Zayn cuts him off, tone sharper than Louis’ ever heard it. Or at least, he’s never heard Zayn aim it towards him before, “Don’t Lou. Look, I’ve got some news, yeah?” 

 Louis sees it then, the subtle difference between Zayn’s over-breakfast-silence and his own. He finally notices the twitch in Zayn’s long fingers, how his mug’s not very steady. The acrid taste of panic on his tongue, once he does, is even more bitter than the tea. 

“What? What, Zayn?”  

“I’m-I’m. Oh god, How do I say this?” Zayn seems to ask the ceiling, a prayer perhaps, “I’m leavin’, yeah? I got a job. I. Shit.” His eyes close and stay that way. Bomb dropped, both of their hearts falling with it. “I’ve known for days but I didn’t know how to say. The right moment never came and it’s not going to really, cus you’re my fucking boy Louis. But, I’ve got this job. So I have to go. I’m all packed and stuff. I’m so fucking sorry Lou, I love you to death, but I can’t... not, you know?” 

“Can’t not what?” Louis presses, trying desperately not to scrape his nails against old scars as the panic creeps through him. The morning, his life, having been pulled out from beneath his feet like a rug, “Explain to me right fucking now, Zayn.”  

“It’s Bowie.” Zayn mutters gingerly and Louis can hear that it hurts him to say [but he thinks that it’s probably hurting him more to hear it], “His people got in touch, after he visited the Blitz that one night. He’s heard me demos, he likes my look. He wants to work with me, tour a bit, let me contribute maybe...?”  

With nothing but a slow swallow, Louis nods, begins gathering their dishes so that he can wash them. Anything to keep himself from simply sitting and sobbing. The crockery rattles in his grasp and the floor feels a lot less even than it should but he makes it to the counter top with his chin tipped in a admirable act of bravery.  

“Right then. Well that’s that,” He says eventually, plates and cups clattering loudly and his heart matching their clumsy rhythm as it begins pumping again, “Bowie, eh? Christ. That’s big, yeah? Are you leaving this morning, then?” 

“Lou, c’mere, leave them plates for now, Do you want a cuddle? I am sorry.” Zayn whispers, fingers steepled and pressing to the bow of his lips, “I just- in my head, I thought if the news came quick.. and like, a plaster, y’know?” 

“No.” Louis replies shortly, “You should probably just go now, yeah? Wouldn’t want to keep _Bowie_ waiting, fucking hell.” 

“I have time to say goodbye, baby.” Zayn insists, easing up out of his chair and picking his way across to Louis. 

His movements are far too measured, as though Louis is now someone delicate he needs to tiptoe around, be terribly concerned for. It makes Louis cringe as he shrinks from any of Zayn’s proffered sympathy; head shaking, heel of his hand forcing back vulnerable tears. Zayn can’t be the one to reassure him moments after he’s been the one taking a sledge hammer to his sense of security. Zayn can’t be anything, it snaps in that moment; the thread that wound around their hearts, little knots around their bones, and kept them almost as one.  

So, Louis refuses to look across at Zayn. He doesn’t see his arms lift and open, begging silently for an embrace, doesn’t see them drop again, either. He doesn’t catch the tears that spurt down over Zayn’s cheeks and the quiver to his lips, but he hears his broken sigh, and the sound of him turning and leaving the room. His pause in the kitchen doorway, the awkward glance over his shoulder far too short to right any of his wrongs. Zayn doesn’t want to say another _sorry_ , because he doesn’t want to have it curl up and die in the middle of the kitchen, ignored by Louis, so they don’t speak again. 

Instead, Zayn hurries to dress and fetch his belongings from their bedroom and Louis sinks to the floor. Cradling Zayn’s mug as he does, he sits like a lost little boy; the cup clutched to his chest and his crying finally set free. Quiet, shuddering sobs that make him feel horribly weak. Everything fogs over as though it couldn’t be real, buzzing in his ears, and it has Louis hoping that he’s dreaming- until he wipes ineffectually at his cheeks, feels how wet they are. 

“Shit,” He grunts, the word almost decisive, and scrambles up from the floor; drags himself across to slump against the door jamb and watch for Zayn. 

When he reappears, heaving all of his belongings in an old holdall and a couple of bin liners, his eyes are red rimmed and Louis guesses that his must be, too. Both of them with their pink noses and needy little breaths. Louis sniffles, lip wobbling, and Zayn gasps as though he’s been hurt. Louis can see that Zayn still wants to hug him, probably wants to tuck some more tears into his hair; share chaste last kisses before they part. Louis can’t give them to him.  

“I didn’t want us to be counting down,” Zayn whispers, trying hard to have Louis understand, “I didn’t want us to be caught up in knowing that we only had days left. Nothing changed for us, we were as perfect as we’ve ever been, right up until breakfast. Lou, that’s what we deserved. I wanted a night out and lots of kisses, but I didn’t want them to be in preparation for mourning, you know?” 

Louis hears Zayn begging him for validation, but he doesn’t give it. He just looks him over for one last time- up and down [sees what Bowie saw far too vividly]- and then shakes his head. Shrugs his shoulders rather than using his words. 

“I’ll always love you.” Zayn vows, switching all of his bags across to one hand so that he yank open the front door when he reaches it, “I’ll send money if I can- I’ll keep in touch when I can, too. Always baby, nothing can erase what we’ve had together, you know?”  

“Yeah,” Louis hears himself murmur, though it’s not even a fraction of all the words balancing on the tip of his tongue- and then the door shuts, probably before the _yeah_ has even reached Zayn.  

For a moment after the door has clicked closed, Louis lets the foreign silence settle about him. Waiting for it become calming, he tries to exhale the tangle of his anger but the knots stick, constricting ropes around his ribs and a thunderstorm in his head. A great explosion of retorts, of punishing words, that have nowhere to slink away to. He doesn’t even feel as though his heart has broken, but rather that he has simply died and faded to a ghost. So sudden he didn’t even feel his soul slipping from his body. When he looks down to the mug he’s still clutching he is quite surprised to see that his hands are quite solid around it.  

Briefly, he wonders about launching the cup at the door. Hears what it would cause- the sweet, sharp tear through his suffocation. He lifts it higher, blinking through a film of tears to inspect it [the stains from Zayn’s tea, the hairline cracks], doubts he has the energy and instead just opens out his fingers so that the mug slips and falls to the carpet soundlessly. Barely bouncing, it lays lifelessly where it lands, and with a fresh wave of muted tears, Louis does the same. 


End file.
